


Everybody Here Would Know

by skoosiepants



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-12
Updated: 2005-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron forgave Seamus everything. Everything. Because of Draco Malfoy's fine, fine arse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Here Would Know

Bright sun woke him up.   
  
Bright sun and sharp, painful jabs in his side, that is. Bright sun, sharp jabs and an angry voice growling his name, actually. So, really, Ron wasn’t looking forward to opening his eyes on the whole.  
  
“Wake the fuck up, Weasley!”  
  
“Go ‘way,” Ron muttered, shoving an arm at the foot kicking him and rolling over, squirming further down into the soft sand. Wait a tic. Ron froze, eyes still squeezed shut, and smoothed a hand over the mattress under him. Well, it was _supposed_ to be a mattress.   
  
His eyes popped open and he bolted upright. “What?” He glanced around wildly, taking in the expanse of blinding white sand, ending just as blue-green waves foamed upon the beach, then taking in the blinding white torso of a bare-chested Draco Malfoy glaring down at him, green silk pajama bottoms hanging off lean hips.  
  
Ron licked his lips. “This is one fucked-up dream,” he whispered.  
  
“So you dream about me, Weasley,” Draco sneered. “Can’t say I’m flattered.”  
  
“I don’t dream about you like _this_ ,” the redhead grumbled, scooping up a bit of sand and watching it fall through his fingers. It was nice sand. Fine and smooth.  
  
Draco rubbed a hand over his forehead. “I don’t think I want to know how you really dream about me,” he said, voice pained.  
  
Squinting up at the blond again, Ron said, “Well, for one you aren’t nearly so… white.”  
  
“And I suppose I’m also nice and decent and hold your hand?” Draco cracked, crouching down and grasping Ron by the shoulders. He shook him once, firmly, then growled, “This isn’t a fucking dream, you half-wit. You’ve landed us on a _deserted isle_. With a _Hufflepuff_.”  
  
“This,” Ron swallowed, horror crawling up his throat, “this isn’t a dream?”  
  
Draco flounced back to his feet. “No. No it’s not,” he shouted, and then he yanked a folded piece of parchment out of the back of his waistband and tossed it at Ron. “You utter _moron_.”  
  
With shaky fingers, Ron thumbed the paper open and looked down at the note written on it. From his Muggle Studies professor. About his latest assignment. An assignment that he hadn’t, to his knowledge, even finished. An assignment that he obviously hadn’t paid close enough attention to.   
  
A quick look at the list attached to the letter, apparently eight things he’d want with him on a deserted isle, showed that, no, he wasn’t going completely crazy. But Seamus was a dead man.  
  
“I swear, Malfoy. It’s not my fault. Seamus—“  
  
“Not your fault? _I_ don’t take Muggle Studies, and I’m pretty sure Ernie fucking Macmillan has at least enough survival instincts not to put me down as an _essential_ on a deserted island!”  
  
Ron pressed his lips together in a scowl. Seamus was seriously going to pay for this. And Ron really had to learn not to fall asleep in the common room with his books open. The Irish boy had obviously finished the list, of which Ron had only gotten to number three, and handed it in for him, counting on Ron to completely forget about the assignment once it was out of sight. Which he had. Damn it.  
  
He bet Seamus had just found this hilarious. Stuck on an island for the weekend with his worst enemy and an over-excitable badger.  
  
“Where’s Ernie?” Ron finally asked stiffly.  
  
Draco waved a hand. “Who knows? He’s like a fucking puppy, all eager and bounding and rolling about.” He sighed and dropped down into the sand next to Ron. “I hate you.”  
  
“It’s only for a few days,” Ron offered tentatively.  
  
“A weekend with only a case of chocolate frogs to eat,” Draco snarled. “What were you _thinking_?”  
  
“I _told_ you. Seamus wrote the list, not me. And I had no idea we’d have to actually _be_ on an island,” Ron shouted defensively. “It was a hypothetical question!”  
  
“Stop shouting, Weasel, you’re giving me a megrim.”  
  
Ron couldn’t stop a laugh. “A what? Are you eighty, Malfoy?”  
  
“Shut it,” he grumbled.  
  
Ron’s chuckle petered off into a deep-seated sigh, and he propped his arms on his upraised knees, digging his bare feet into the sand. Three days. Three days with Malfoy and Ernie – although, embarrassingly enough, he recalled putting Ernie down on the list himself. The bloke was big and blond and had that adorable sort of ‘love me’ cast to his smile that Ron just couldn’t resist.   
  
He slanted a glance at Draco, noting the other boy’s scowl, hair uncharacteristically shaggy around his face, cheeks already starting to pink in the sun. He really shouldn’t be out in the open with that skin, Ron thought. Definitely should be wearing a shirt at the very least. Without another thought, Ron shifted and peeled his own t-shirt over his head, tossing it at Draco. “Here.”  
  
Draco caught it with a questioning arch of his brow.  
  
Ron shrugged. “You’re going to burn like that.”  
  
Lifting it up with a single finger, the blond lobbed it back to Ron. “Keep it, Weasel,” he snarled.  
  
“Suit yourself,” Ron said tightly, clutching the thin shirt in his fist and swallowing down his annoyance. He was going to have an entire Friday without classes, he told himself, a mini-break on a beautiful beach. A beautiful beach with a gorgeous, friendly Hufflepuff. He was _not_ going to let Malfoy ruin it for him.  
  
Speaking of… Ron spotted Ernie jogging towards them, bright blue boxer shorts topping strong thighs and tight, care-worn Hufflepuff Pride t-shirt straining across his rapid-breath chest, golden-blond hair curling over his ears and flopping over his forehead in the light breeze. The redhead bit back a sigh and raised a hand in greeting. “Ernie,” he called out, ignoring Draco’s huff of derision from beside him.  
  
“Ron, hey,” Ernie breathed, stopping in front of them and practically bouncing on his feet, smile lighting his eyes. “This is brilliant, isn’t it? Completely awesome. I just ran down and around the point, and gods it’s hot, but can you smell it?” He inhaled deeply, spreading his arms wide. “My uncle’s got a house in Bermuda. I’ve only been once, but this smell is exactly the same. All salt and fresh and do you want to go for a swim? I’m dying for a swim.”  
  
“Er.” Ron blinked up at him, somewhat stunned by the boy’s rambling speech. “Later?”  
  
Ernie _did_ bounce then, shifting to look down at the Slytherin. “You, Malfoy?” he asked, biting his bottom lip and looking as if he was just barely refraining from clapping his hands.  
  
“I don’t think so,” Draco drawled. He sounded more amused than anything else, though, and Ron sent him a curious glance. Draco just glared back at him, daring him to make a remark.  
  
“Your loss, mates.” The Hufflepuff shrugged, then sprinted off with a muffled shout of joy as he pulled his t-shirt over his head, shucking his boxers just as he reached the edge of the water, giving Ron and Draco a glimpse of his near-perfect arse before diving into the waves. Merlin bless him.  
  
“He’s seeing Millie,” Draco commented absently.  
  
“What?” Ron turned incredulous eyes on the Slytherin. He couldn’t have heard that right.  
  
Draco tore his gaze from the frolicking Hufflepuff. “I said he’s seeing Millie. As in he’s _straight_.”  
  
“He’s going out with Millie? Bulstrode? _That_ Millie?”   
  
The blond rolled his eyes. “They’re in love,” he sneered. “It’s quite disgusting. But he’s so fucking adorable, and you can’t insult him. Well, you _can_ , but he’s too thick to even notice so what’s the point?”  
  
“Millicent Bulstrode?” Ron asked again, because he couldn’t quite see that. The large, full-bodied, stoic Slytherin girl and the exuberant, child-like… well, extremely hot Hufflepuff? In love? It boggled the mind.  
  
“ _Yes_ , Weasley,” Draco said, fingertips pressed to his temples, “Millicent Bulstrode. Good _gods_ , you’re an idiot.”   
  
Ron hmm’d, determined not to be baited, and slumped back onto his elbows, tipping his head to the side to eye Draco’s long back, the boy’s knobby spine clearly defined as he hunched over onto his knees.   
  
The Slytherin was the complete opposite of Ernie. Slight and sharp, all angles and taut pale skin, Seeker muscles compact and lean. Ron wondered idly if the blond was as bendy as Harry seemed to be, the lightning quick maneuvers needed for their Quidditch position having trained his body over the years to respond in ways Ron couldn’t even imagine trying with his own broader frame.  
  
Sighing, Ron rolled to his feet and walked over to the pile of bags and boxes that apparently contained the rest of his things. He turned bright red when he flipped open the first box to reveal a stack of Playwitch magazines. Well. Seamus may’ve been a bastard, but at least he’d supplied decent reading material.  
  
The second box he rifled through contained his old, chipped and worn set of Wizard’s chess, and Ron smiled, palming a rook and rubbing a thumb over its loudly protesting head before tucking it away again and digging into a bag, pulling out a crisp white t-shirt. Turning, he threw it over Draco’s head and said, “Put that on, Malfoy. It’s brand new, so you can’t complain. And for pity’s sake get out of the sun!” He gestured towards the canopy of palm trees that fringed a dark, thick jungle in the middle of the island.  
  
Draco held up the shirt, then shifted onto his knees and glanced over his shoulder at Ron. “Are you joking?”  
  
Ron rolled his eyes. “Clearly Seamus was,” he answered, as the shirt had “I heart Seamus Finnigan” emblazoned on it in sparkly red lettering. He really had to wonder what Professor Dirch had been thinking, allowing him all the crazy-arse things the Irish boy had listed on his assignment. Playwitch?   
  
From what the professor had written, of course, Ron gathered he was supposed to take this weekend to contemplate need versus want, and how that reflected the Muggle mindset and their predilection for hypothetical questions. Or some such rot. It didn’t make much sense to Ron, really, and he suspected Dirch was more than a little off in the head.   
  
Scowling, Draco yanked the shirt on and stood up, smoothing his hands down his chest. “I can’t believe I’m wearing this,” he muttered, tracing the lettering.  
  
“Better than frying,” Ron offered, ripping open a chocolate frog. He was starving. Catching it mid-leap as it escaped the packaging, Ron bit into it with a low growl.  
  
“Hungry?” Draco asked, eyes shining with blatant disgust as he watched Ron swallow down the sweet, barely chewing.  
  
“Yeah.” Ron smiled widely. “There should be plenty to eat on the island, though. Dirch wouldn’t let us starve.”  
  
“What? Are we expected to _forage_?” Draco demanded, horrified. “Like common animals?”  
  
“Animals? What? Forage?” Ernie came bounding up behind them, clothes sticking to his damp body, and he shook his head like a dog, splattering water over Draco’s back.  
  
“Watch it, Macmillan,” Draco snapped.  
  
Ron couldn’t help but sigh at the sight of the Hufflepuff, skin already browning, muscles flecked with droplets of salty water, large hands carding through his wet curls as he smiled sheepishly at them.  
  
“Sorry,” Ernie mumbled.  
  
“Up for some breakfast?” Ron asked him brightly, earning a nasty smirk from Draco. Ron sent him a glare. Just because the bloke was seemingly straight, it didn’t mean he couldn’t try. Or at the very least _look_. Looking never hurt anybody.  
  
Ernie immediately perked up, and if the boy had a tail Ron swore it’d be wagging furiously. “Food?”  
  
Ron laughed and tossed him a chocolate frog. “Something to eat, yeah. And fresh water.”  
  
“You’re taking this all very well, Weasel,” Draco drawled, eyeing Ron suspiciously.   
  
“It’s not my fault,” Ron insisted, “but I’m starving and we’re stuck here, so I’m going to go scouting.”  
  
Ernie rocked back on his bare heels. “Me too,” he said, nodding.  
  
“Fine,” Draco groused, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t think you’re leaving me here alone.”  
  
As they started off towards the tree line, Ron thought it really wasn’t all that bad. He had Ernie, easy on the eyes and the perfect buffer between him and Malfoy. Only a half-hour later, though, Ron was starting to feel worn down from simply watching the Hufflepuff. Where did the boy get his energy? It was hot as hell out, even under the shady palm fronds, and sweat dripped down his back and forehead, blurring his vision.   
  
With a curse he whipped off his shirt, mopped his face and tied the ends around his head, trying to catch as much moisture as he could, trudging forward at a pace made slow by the humid air and thick jungle floor. He was in desperate need of water.  
  
A glance at Draco moving just ahead of him showed the other boy not faring much better, his skin pinked from exertion more than sunburn, the “I heart Seamus” shirt sticking to his back in a spreading, sweaty v. His white-blond hair was slicked to his skull, the ends hanging below his ears in a shaggy mess and curling at his nape.  
  
Without pausing to think, Ron reached out and grasped the bottom of Draco’s shirt, tugging it up in one brisk movement. “Gods, Malfoy, you’re making me hotter just looking at you. Take this bloody thing off, will you?”  
  
Draco twisted away from him, narrowing his gray eyes. “Since when have you been allowed to order me about?” His face was flushed, though, perspiration more than dotting his hairline, the front of his shirt plastered almost transparently against his skin.  
  
“We don’t have any water yet,” Ron said, refraining from pointing out that he’d basically been ordering him about all morning, since he really didn’t think it’d prove helpful, “and I’m not going to carry your limp carcass if you pass out.”  
  
Draco’s no doubt scathing reply was preempted by a loud whoop and a splash, and Ron pushed past the Slytherin to continue down the narrow Hufflepuff-made path after Ernie. Water, it seemed, was ahoy.  
  
Ernie was calf-deep in a small spring when Ron reached him, bent over with cupped hands splashing fresh water on his face. Smile dripping, he straightened and waved Ron over. “There’s fruit, too,” he said, kicking out a foot playfully.  
  
Dirch had really gone all out. Every kind of orchard tree imaginable was circling the pond, apples, pears, kiwis, peaches, pomegranates and more all growing in clumps on whip-lean branches, threatening to drop off their stems, most so ripe they’d probably be too soft and sweet to eat. Ron’s stomach gurgled loudly at the sight.   
  
“Sweet Merlin,” Draco murmured breathily from behind him. “This is where I want to live out my days.”  
  
With only a short, barking laugh as warning, Ernie lunged for Ron and yanked him into the spring, and the redhead choked on a yelp and about a gallon of surprisingly cool water as he went under.  
  
Ron came up for air with a gasp, half-angry, but more than a little amused. And definitely grateful for the fresh water. “Come on in, Malfoy,” Ron called out, sending a splash the blond’s way.  
  
“You two do realize we have to drink this water,” Draco pointed out, disgruntled on the sidelines. “And now your sweaty bodies have contaminated it.”  
  
Ron shrugged, the movement spreading rings. “It’s a spring.” He gestured towards the small, trickling waterfall. “Just so long as we don’t _piss_ in it...”  
  
Draco’s lip curled. “Wonderful, Weasel,” he cracked, then moved closer to the water’s edge and bent down to dip his fingers in the cool water, a maneuver that proved too tempting for Ernie to ignore. Draco soon found himself submerged in the shallow pond, Ernie guffawing at the drenched Slytherin from a safe distance. “I’m going to kill you, Macmillan,” Draco growled, but Ernie just laughed harder.  
  
***  
  
Ernie really sucked at chess.   
  
He actually won the first game against Ron, since his non-strategy of full-on attacking Ron’s pieces took the Gryffindor completely by surprise. Ernie apparently didn’t have the patience to think through his moves, and kept jumping up and pacing down the beach and back again while Ron contemplated his own. The games were thus short-lived, and gave Ron five unsatisfying wins in just over an hour.  
  
Finally, Ron stomped over to where Draco was sprawled in the shade, pajama trousers torn short at mid-thigh, listening non-stop to Dean’s charmed copy of _Negotiations and Love Songs_ , and practically pleaded with him to play a decent game of chess.  
  
Well, all right. He didn’t plead. He plopped down beside him, heaved the chess case onto the Slytherin’s belly and said, “I need to be purged. You need to purge me, Malfoy.”  
  
“What?” Draco asked groggily, blinking up at him.  
  
“Ernie. Chess. Horrible. _Purge_.” Ron said each word louder, until he was practically shouting in Draco’s face, and the blond struggled up into a sitting position.  
  
“All right, all right. Fuck, you’re annoying, Weasley. Calm down.”  
  
Ron swiped a hand across his lips and snorted. “Just let’s play a decent game, eh? My mind’s a pile of mush from Ernie’s stratagem.” He cracked his knuckles, then started setting up the pieces.  
  
Draco managed a decent fight for the board, but after an hour his attention clearly started to wander. “You know,” he said absently, pawn tucked tight in his fist, its protests muffled, “this Muggle music is bound to rot my brain.”  
  
Ron hummed a bit of _Kodachrome_ under his breath, because giving into the lure of _Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes_ was possibly the most disturbing thing he could do within range of Draco. They were getting entirely too comfortable with each other.  
  
The burying of the petty hatred had come well before their current island romp, of course. Otherwise, they would have skewered each other within moments of finding themselves stuck, and Ernie would’ve been left to sort through the pieces. But the _camaraderie_ they seemed to be developing between them was nothing short of sickening.   
  
The thing that was most different about Draco on the island, though, as opposed to Draco at Hogwarts, was that he all of a sudden seemed incredibly mellow. Tolerant, even. The exact opposite of all that Ron normally associated with the git, despite the unspoken truce they’d contrived at the beginning of the year.   
  
Ernie was dancing behind them, his shadow flickering across the chessboard, and Draco merely slanted him a single annoyed glance before sighing heavily and rolling onto his back. “I’m done, Weasel.”  
  
“I’m hungry,” Ernie said.  
  
“We’ve plenty of fruit at the waterhole.” Ron got to his feet. “Come on, I’ll go with you.”  
  
Ernie dropped to his knees, grabbing at Ron’s calves, wrapping his fingers around the back of his legs and nearly pulling the redhead down into the sand. “For the love of Merlin, no more fruit, mate,” he begged dramatically. “Food! _Meat_.” The Hufflepuff’s stomach growled noisily in agreement.  
  
Ron stared down at him with wide eyes. It’d barely been a _day_. He hadn’t realized before how much the boy prized his protein. “Meat?”  
  
“He’s a growing boy, Weasley,” Draco drawled, eyes closed and slim hands folded over his bare abdomen, the Seamus shirt long discarded in the shade.  
  
“Er.” Ron shifted on his feet, trying to dislodge Ernie’s grip. He didn’t know what they expected him to do. He wasn’t going to hunt down little animals. He wasn’t going to _skin_ something, or, you know, kill it with his bare hands. “Meat?” he repeated dumbly.  
  
Draco sighed heavily, cracking open one eye. “You’re just completely useless, aren’t you? Take him _fishing_ , dumbarse.”  
  
Fishing. Well, it was better than slaughtering furry animals, but. “With what?” Ron placed his fists on his hips and surveyed the coastline, the calming lap of waves, noting a small flock of gulls hovering just off-shore.   
  
The blond Slytherin stretched and yawned before rolling onto his side. “Wade in the shallows for bit. Use something shiny; fish love shiny things,” he mumbled sleepily. “Stab or grab.”  
  
Ron stared at Draco for a moment in wonder, watching him drift off, go boneless, completely relaxed, all defenses down. Something lurched inside his ribcage and he absently rubbed the spot with the flat of his palm. Shaking his head, he smiled down at Ernie. “S’pose we should try it, then,” he said with a shrug.  
  
Ernie scrambled to his feet. “Do we have anything shiny?”  
  
“Um.” A shiny object was surprisingly something that Seamus, partial to anything sparkly and bright, hadn’t put on the infamous list. He glanced around, gaze finally settling on Draco’s narrow fingers and the silver signet ring weighing down his right hand. Sending Ernie a mischievous grin, he knelt down by Draco and murmured, “Let’s see if we can worry this off without waking the git.”  
  
Ernie hovered, and Ron gingerly clasped the ring with his fingertips, wiggling it back and forth slowly, watching Draco’s face for any signs that he was waking. It took a few steady minutes, a few pauses when the blond’s breathing hitched or shifted patterns, but Ron finally got the small bit of silver off, palming it with a smug grin.  
  
They wandered over to where there were the most gulls, skimming the water in low dives and cawing in protest as they disturbed the water, wading in up to their thighs. It was a narrow inlet, piles of slick, algae covered rocks caging them in on both sides, a reef just visible under the water’s surface ahead of them, choking the lolling waves and stilling the small area into a tide pool.   
  
Ernie visibly fought to control his limbs and stand still, the small, quick-silver fish swirling around their legs, darting away at the slightest disturbance in the water. Ron dipped one arm cautiously into the ocean up to his shoulder, his chin hovering just above the surface, and he angled the ring to catch the hot midday sun, squinting as the glare hit his eyes.  
  
“Just wait,” Ron cautioned, feeling the vibrating energy in the air around the other boy.  
  
“When?” Ernie breathed.  
  
“Wait.” The fish were settling down, getting used to their intrusive presence, shoaling in small groups of five to ten, then merging into larger schools as their hesitance lessened, and their interest in the small ring grew. “Wait for it.”  
  
Ernie almost moved, Ron could tell, but he just whined, “ _When_?” hands curled in anticipation.  
  
“Alright, now.”  
  
“Now?”   
  
Ron slanted the Hufflepuff an irritated glance. “Yes, _now_.”  
  
A wide, slow grin spread across Ernie’s face, and his shout was loud enough to wake the dead when he plunged headfirst into the ocean.  
  
Ron shook his head on a chuckle, water dripping off the end of his nose, and wasn’t surprised when Ernie’s hands came up empty. Nearly an hour later, they still hadn’t caught anything, and then Ernie stumbled into Ron, and lunging for fish quickly degenerated into a sort of wet wrestling match.   
  
Drenched, laughing, and coughing up copious amounts of saltwater, they dragged their tired bodies up onto the beach and collapsed into the sand. Ron panted up at the cloudless sky, eyes half-closed, palms pressed to his aching sides. After only a moment, though, Ernie was back on his feet, his long shadow falling across the redhead.   
  
“I’m still starving,” he said.  
  
Ron snorted. The exertion and hot sun were enough to make Ron ravenous as well. He vaguely pondered moving, his limbs protesting, and wondered if he could talk Ernie into fetching him something to eat. And then he realized Draco’s ring was no longer on his finger. “Shit.” He held his empty hand up and Ernie grabbed it and hefted him to his feet.  
  
“Malfoy’s gonna kill you,” Ernie taunted with a laugh.  
  
“Shut it,” Ron growled, stomping back over to the water’s edge, Ernie’s chuckles echoing after him as the blond disappeared down the beach.   
  
After an indeterminate length of time he gave up, having not found Draco’s ring, but acquiring a rather nasty burn on the back of his neck and scalp. His skin was angry and tight and his mood wasn’t much better when he stalked back up the beach to where Draco was lounging, now awake and listening to the soothing sounds of Paul Simon again, and Ron really had to wonder about Seamus’ sanity. Why would he waste a spot on the damn list with Muggle music?  
  
Draco was singing softly under his breath, so Ron couldn’t tell if he actually _knew_ the lyrics or not, but he was pretty sure he saw the prat wiggling his feet to the beat. Ron coughed awkwardly, fist to his lips.   
  
“What did you do?” Draco demanded, eyes sharp on his face.  
  
While Ron wasn’t really all that surprised that Draco could read him so easily, he was a little puzzled that the Slytherin hadn’t noticed his missing ring. Ron’s gaze dropped to Draco’s right hand, lingering on the strip of pale flesh, the slight indentation on his middle finger where the signet ring used to rest. “Um.” He dug his bare toes into the sand and wiped his hands on his boxers.  
  
“What? What did you do? Where’s Macmillan?”   
  
Ron took a wary step backwards as the blond shot to his feet. “He’s off somewhere doing Ernie things,” he said quickly, hands out in supplication. “Everything’s fine.”  
  
Draco scowled at him, hands on his hips. “You look guilty as fuck, Weasel.”  
  
Ron forced himself to stand his ground. And he definitely wasn’t going to bring up the missing ring if Draco hadn’t even noticed it was gone. “It’s just. We didn’t get any fish,” he offered. Lame. So lame.  
  
“Well, of course not.” Draco snorted. “That wasn’t going to work. At least not without an amazing amount of luck and coordination, something both you and Macmillan are sorely lacking. I just wanted you to go away.”  
  
“Well.” Ron cleared his throat and clapped his hands together. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Waterhole?”  
  
Draco eyed him suspiciously, but nodded.  
  
At the spring, Ernie was perched on an outcropping of rock, legs dangling in the water, grinning around an enormous juicy peach. Ron really hoped he wouldn’t mention the ring incident, and tried to glare meaningfully at the boy. He honestly didn’t think it would work, but Ernie just chewed happily on his peach and tossed one that’d been sitting beside him at Malfoy.  
  
It dropped like a stone at Draco’s feet, making a wet squelching noise as it split apart.  
  
“Nice catch, Malfoy,” Ron chuckled. “Where’re your Seeker reflexes?”  
  
Draco sneered at him. “It was a fucking _peach_ ,” he growled, as if that should make complete sense.   
  
Ron cocked his head to the side. “Sure.” Maybe he was allergic. Or didn’t want to get his hands messy.  
  
With a half-disgusted snort, Draco sidestepped the smashed peach and grabbed for a dirt-yellow pear, biting into it as he sat down on the rock opposite Ernie.  
  
“So,” Ernie started, sucking idly on the peach stone before tossing it away, “what do we do now?”  
  
It took less than a minute for Ron to shake off the image of Ernie’s sticky fingers pressed to his pursed lips, brown pit just peeking out of them. Progress. He cleared his throat. “Um… we could see what’s on the other side? Follow the coast around?”  
  
“Exploring!” Ernie crowed excitedly, hopping down from his rock and splashing through ankle deep water.  
  
They had maybe two hours before sunset, but Ron figured they could just as easily camp on the other end of the island as they could where they were. He really didn’t think Dirch would’ve left them alone and defenseless with any wild animals.  
  
Draco heaved a sigh. “Must we?”  
  
“ _You_ don’t have to do anything, Malfoy,” Ron pointed out, plucking two green apples from a tree and bending down to rinse them briefly in the fresh water.  
  
“I told you before,” the blond retorted hotly, “you’re not leaving me alone.”  
  
Ron rolled his eyes. “Then you can’t complain about exploring. Right, Ernie?”  
  
“No complaining allowed, mate. You’ll ruin the vibe,” he added, shimmying his hips.  
  
“ _What_ vibe,” Draco grumbled, but he seemed somewhat cheered by Ernie’s impromptu dance move. Ron agreed that pretty much anything the Hufflepuff did that brought attention to his hips was an instant mood-lifter.  
  
It only took twenty minutes of trolling down the beach for Ron to admit that exploring had been a bad idea. Once again he was a sodden sweaty mess, and the light breeze that was blowing inward from the ocean wasn’t doing much to cool him off. “Did anyone think to bring water?” he gasped, shoving a hand over his nape and lifting the shag of hair there off his slick skin.  
  
Draco shot him a nasty glare. “And where would we’ve put it? I _told_ you this was a bad idea.” His shirt was off, despite the hot sun glowering down at them, and he looked completely ridiculous in his cut-off silk bottoms, a red burn topping his knees, flushing across his chest and shoulders, striping across his forehead under his silver fringe, and sloping down his thin-bridged nose.  
  
Ron swallowed back a bark of laughter at the sight, and he really didn’t know why he wasn’t taunting the bloke, since Draco had never ever pulled any punches with _him_. But he looked sort of cute. Kind of. Slightly, in a mostly disturbing way. So he just shrugged and said, “Maybe we should turn back.”  
  
“You think?” the Slytherin mocked.  
  
“We can play a game,” Ernie called over to them, swinging his arms in the air. “A _water_ game.”  
  
“What are you, Macmillan, six? I can’t _believe_ I have to put up with you two,” Draco grumbled. But he trudged down to the water’s edge after Ernie, and with a sigh Ron followed.   
  
***  
  
That night, the stars were bright and clear and Ron wished he’d paid a little more attention in Astronomy class. Naming stars would’ve at least passed the time.  
  
The three of them were sprawled out on their backs on the beach, an exhausted Ernie between Draco and Ron. He _had_ to have been exhausted, since it was clearly the only time the Hufflepuff slowed down enough to relax. It was all stop or go with that boy, and nothing in between.  
  
“Why are we here?” Ernie asked, voice sleepy and vague, and it took a moment for Ron to realize he meant here, on the island, instead of the existential pondering of Life. It was Ernie, after all.  
  
“Um, well—”  
  
“We’re here,” Draco cut in scathingly, “because Weasley is a complete dumbarse who’s failing Muggle Studies.”  
  
Ron curled his fingers into the sand to keep from launching himself at the Slytherin and choking him to death. Only two more days to go. Or one and a half, really, since he expected they’d be transported back to Hogwarts sometime Sunday morning. “How d’you know I’m failing?”   
  
He really was failing, too, having barely received three passing marks all term. It wasn’t that it was a particularly hard subject, but with Neville as the only other Gryffindor in a class full of flobberworm-dull Ravenclaws… Ron’s mind tended to wander. Thus resulting in the current mess he was in. Why the hell couldn’t Neville have _warned_ him about the assignment?  
  
“I have informants,” Draco stated matter-of-factly.  
  
“You have informants. That… watch me?” he asked, puzzled. And a little freaked out.  
  
Draco waved a hand, black against the abnormally bright night sky. “You, Potty, Granger, three-fifths of Gryffindor, a smattering of Hufflepuffs, two or three Ravenclaws that deserve to die.”  
  
Ron was silent for a moment, pondering that genuinely creepy confession, listening to the quiet snores of Ernie who’d finally succumbed to sleep. “What’s my favorite food, then?” It was a tough question really, the toughest he could think of off the top of his head, considering Ron loved all food on basic principle.  
  
“Pie.”  
  
“What—”  
  
“Any sort. So long as it has filling and a crust and can be classified as pie, you love it.”  
  
“You are all kinds of strange, Malfoy,” Ron murmured, shifting to pillow his hands under his head. Not that it was a very surprising revelation. He’d known something was off with the bloke when he’d spied him stuffing stunned pixies in his bag back in second year. Well, truthfully, he’d known it at first sight, what with that helmet of shellacked hair. Draco was always an odd little fucker. “Skin hurt?” he asked, just to ask something.   
  
“No.”  
  
Ron snorted. The blond’s entire face and upper body had been crabapple red when the sun started to fade from the sky. There was no way Draco wasn’t at least a little sore.  
  
Ernie chuffed and rolled over, and Ron sat up slowly. “We should move,” he said, staring at the Hufflepuff and noting the way his slack features were illuminated prettily by the moonlight. Too bad he was straight. And possibly the most annoying boy ever when awake. “The sun’ll be deadly in the morning if we stay out here.”  
  
Draco poked Ernie with a toe. “Good luck getting the puppy up. Millicent says he sleeps like a deaf log.”  
  
Ron opened his mouth to ask how a log could be deaf, but decided against it and just shook his head. “Ernie,” he called, knocking a fist into the boy’s shoulder. When that didn’t provoke more than a muffled grunt, Ron leaned over and grasped his arm, moving him so that he was laid out flat on his back. He patted his face with an open palm. “Ernie?”  
  
“It’s no use, Weasel,” Draco drawled, getting to his feet and dusting off his pajama bottoms.  
  
Ron followed him up, pulling his shirt back over his body and rolling his shoulders. “Then help me move him to the trees. We can’t just leave him like this.”  
  
“I don’t see why not. The boy won’t burn.” His voice held just a tinge of envy at the Hufflepuff’s admirable tanning ability.  
  
“Just grab his legs, Malfoy, and I’ll heft up under his arms,” Ron said, already crouching down by Ernie’s head.  
  
“Why do I get the feet?” Draco whinged, moving to shove Ron with a knee.  
  
“Fine,” Ron stood, too tired to argue, “ _I’ll_ get his feet.”  
  
Smugly, Draco waited for Ron to curl his hands around Ernie’s calves before slipping his arms around the Hufflepuff’s torso. He lifted him up a few inches, cursed under his breath, and promptly dropped him back onto the sand and straightened, wiping his hands on his thighs. “How about you get the head?” Draco said, rounding Ernie again.  
  
Ron sighed. “ _Fine_.” He just wanted to get the boy out of range of the morning sun and go to sleep. Why did Draco have to make everything into a damn _production_?  
  
As they shuffled up the beach, Ernie a dead weight swinging between them, Draco groused, “Why the fuck didn’t you put a _wand_ down on your bloody list?”  
  
“Besides the fact that _Seamus_ wrote most of it,” Ron ground out, gritting his teeth in both annoyance and strain. Ernie was unbelievably heavy. “It’s Muggle Studies, Malfoy. We were supposed to at least _try_ to think outside Magic.”  
  
“Wasn’t aware,” Draco huffed, slightly out of breath, “thinking had been involved in this at all.”  
  
***  
  
Ron half expected to be back in his bed in Gryffindor Tower the next morning, but he woke up sweating from the humidity, with the salty scent of the ocean in his nose, and he blinked his eyes open with a sigh. Then yelped, since gray eyes were peering down at him curiously. “Fuck, Malfoy,” he gasped clutching his chest.  
  
“You talk in your sleep, you know,” Draco said, shifting away from him and settling down in the sand.  
  
The redhead struggled into a sitting position. “Spiders or chess?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Ron waved a hand. “Was I talking about spiders or chess? Harry’s got a tally going.”  
  
Draco frowned at him, hands dangling over his knees. “How should I know, Weasel? You were muttering about claws and Ernie and Seekers and being,” he rolled his eyes, “bendy.”  
  
“Neither, then.” Ron smiled smugly. “Harry owes me a pie.”  
  
“I’m not even going to bother asking why,” the blond drawled.  
  
Ron stretched his arms over his head, rolling his head on his shoulders and yawning wide. “Where’s Ernie?”  
  
Draco squinted out into the distance. “Building a sandcastle.”  
  
“Of course he is,” Ron muttered, running a hand through his salt-sticky hair. “Did you have breakfast?”  
  
Draco nodded absently, then reached beside him and tossed Ron a pear with a sly, slanted glance.  
  
“Um.” Ron furrowed his brows. Malfoy was giving him food? “Thanks?” Maybe it was poisoned. Or worm-ridden, blackened from the inside out. Staring down at it, he smoothed it between his hands. It didn’t _look_ rotted.  
  
Ignoring him, Draco got to his feet and swiped off his shorts; although why he bothered, Ron wasn’t quite sure. There was sand in every facet of Ron’s body, including what felt like his eyes and middle ears.   
  
“Don’t mention it, Weasel. I’m off to help Macmillan.” He threw an unreadable look over his shoulder as he walked away. “Coming?”  
  
Ron watched him disappear down the beach as he bit into the pear, chewing thoughtfully. There was something off about Malfoy. More off that usual, as the boy had always been the weirdest bloke he knew. Except perhaps for Seamus, of course, but then, the Irishman was in a class all by himself.  
  
Smiling slightly, Ron stood up and tossed his pear core into the sand. Building sandcastles and honest-to-Merlin frolicking in the sun with Ernie Macmillan and Draco Malfoy. He could hardly wait to tell Harry.  
  
***  
  
By unspoken agreement, Draco and Ron had put off breaking out the Playwitch magazines as long as they could, unsure how the Hufflepuff would handle them - and Ron didn’t even bother to try and ferret out why Draco was concerned about Ernie’s feelings by that point, since there was obviously something about the boy that not even a hard-hearted Slytherin could resist – but by midday, they were bored out of their skulls, crispy from the hot sun, and there really wasn’t anything _else_ to do. Ron certainly wasn’t going to suggest another game of chess.  
  
They shouldn’t have worried about Ernie, though, since he seemed more fascinated by them than anything else.  
  
Draco twisted one of the rags in the bright afternoon light, eyeing Mr. August with a curled lip. “What the hell is with all the hair? It’s like he’s got a furry animal attacking his groin.”  
  
Ron arched a brow. “It’s called puberty, Malfoy. I’m sure, someday--” He cut off as a magazine hit him square in the face, and he blinked, incredulous. Draco Malfoy had resorted to _physical_ retaliation? “So that’s the way we’re playing it, eh?” he asked, just before he launched himself at the smaller boy, tumbling him over onto his back and then viciously attacking him with… tickles.  
  
“What the…?” Draco wheezed, squirming underneath the redhead and pushing at his hands. “Are you— _stop_!” A rough laugh tore from his throat. “Weas…”  
  
“Apologize,” Ron growled, fingers digging mercilessly into his sides and then skimming over the smooth belly, stealing up to the sensitive skin under his arms.  
  
“STOP,” Draco screeched. “You CRETIN!”  
  
Ron paused over him, hands frozen, body astride Draco’s. “Wow. I’m pretty sure my ears are bleeding now. Thanks.”  
  
Draco snarled at him. “Get. Off.”  
  
“Why? You deserved it. Ernie,” Ron said, lifting his head. “Tell Malfoy he deserved it.”  
  
Ernie’s head cocked to the side, confusion clouding his eyes. “What’d he do?” he asked absently.  
  
The Hufflepuff obviously hadn’t been paying the other boys the least bit of attention. Which caused Ron’s gaze to drop to the magazine gripped in Ernie’s fingers. “Hey.” He nudged Draco, climbing off his lap. “Lookit Ernie.”  
  
Face reddened with anger and still panting harshly, Draco struggled up and glared over at Ernie, who’d gone back to staring intensely at the Playwitch in his hands. “He’s reading Playwitch?”  
  
Ron nodded. “So much for your straight as an arrow theory. Though it _would_ explain Bulstrode. Sort of.”  
  
Draco scowled at him. “No insulting Millie.”  
  
They fell silent, watching an oblivious Ernie as he scanned the rag.  
  
“Maybe he’s just fantastically secure in his masculinity,” Draco offered finally.  
  
And then Ernie glanced up at them and caught their gaze. He smiled widely, jabbed a finger into the paper and said cheerfully, “These blokes are naked in here.”  
  
“You’re right,” Ron said to Draco under his breath, “he’s straight.”  
  
“Completely. And dumb as rocks.”  
  
“Not dumb.” Ron shook his head. “Special.”  
  
“Uncomplicated.”  
  
“I really sort of envy him.”  
  
Ernie let out a low whistle. “This bloke’s dick is _huge_ ,” he said, pure admiration and nothing at all lascivious in his tone.  
  
Ron and Draco sighed in tandem, then went back to their own Playwitches.  
  
***  
  
Omnoculars, Ron thought, were wonderful things. He especially loved the way he could zoom in and slow down and then repeat the scene over and over again because. You know what else was truly, truly wonderful? Draco Malfoy’s bare arse.  
  
Seamus was great. Ron loved Seamus. Seamus was his _best mate_. Because including a pair of Omnoculars on the list was a sign of true friendship, eclipsing and erasing all previous wrongdoings and evil machinations. Ron _forgave_ Seamus everything. _Everything_. Because of Draco Malfoy’s fine, fine arse.  
  
He watched the blond wade slowly into the ocean, letting out a little gasp of pleasure when he bent over, submerging his hands and then sluicing water over his body.  
  
“Why don’t you join him?”  
  
Ron jumped at Ernie’s voice and dropped his hands, gazing up at the Hufflepuff guiltily. “Huh?”  
  
Ernie’s big grin was surprisingly knowing. “You want to.”  
  
“I, um.” _I’d much rather watch_ , he thought, since he doubted Draco would revel in his company, and would most likely retaliate by donning his clothes and walking away. Which would be very, very bad.  
  
The blond Hufflepuff bounced on the balls of his feet. “I don’t think he’d mind, mate. After all, he didn’t yell at you about the ring, did he?”  
  
Ron rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t _know_ about the ring, Ernie.”  
  
“You think so?” Ernie scrunched up his face. “I dunno. You’d think he’d notice it was gone.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean he’d know it was me,” Ron pointed out.  
  
“Yeah, but. It’s Malfoy.”  
  
“It’s…” Well, the Hufflepuff was right. It _was_ Malfoy. And Malfoy blamed Ron for everything, whether it was actually his fault or not. Something was up. Thoughtfully, Ron raised the Omnoculars and focused directly onto Draco’s smirking face. Ron’s eyes widened as the blond lifted a hand in an indolent wave. Was the bugger _taunting_ him?  
  
Ernie nudged his shoulder and chuckled. “Pretty sure that was an invite, mate.”  
  
Lowering his hands again, Ron watched silently as the blond turned and dove into the ocean. The sun was dying on the horizon, making the waves foam orange-yellow, and Draco was rapidly becoming drenched in shadows, a dark figure cutting through the water. Oh, to hell with it. He shot to his feet, tossed the Omnoculars aside, and started off down the beach with Ernie’s booming laugh following him.  
  
Once he got down to the water’s edge, however, Ron found himself at a distinct loss of what to do. He picked up the discarded Seamus shirt, twisting it in his hands. Draco was swimming against the waves, slick as a fish, and Ron couldn’t do anything but stare.  
  
Ernie was hot. Large and friendly and handsome.  
  
Draco was biting and sarcastic and rude. Slippery, pointy-faced, mean-spirited, clever and sly and… interesting. Engaging and witty. Surprisingly sexy.  
  
Ron suddenly got the feeling that his attraction towards the Slytherin had been brought on by more than just his fine pale arse. Which meant either he was completely insane, or the island air was some sort of vaporous hallucinogen.   
  
“Coming in, Weasel?” Draco called, and Ron could hear the smirk in his voice.  
  
There was no way he was going anywhere near Malfoy now. Not when, he swallowed hard, there was a good chance he was _in love_ with the prick. Without a word, he turned and walked away.  
  
***  
  
Sunday morning dawned, and Ron woke up almost suffocated by his covers. But that didn’t really matter at all, because the mere fact that he _had_ covers was wonderful. Fabulous.   
  
“Oh, thank Merlin,” he shouted, then jumped out of bed and flung himself onto Seamus’ mattress across the tower, wrapping his large hands around the Irishman’s throat. “I’m going to kill you,” he snarled.  
  
Harry and Neville pulled him off before he could do any real damage, though, and Ron stood in the middle of the room, panting and glaring.   
  
“Have fun?” Seamus rasped, hand to his neck, still managing to sound cheeky with a sly grin at his lips.  
  
Ron harrumphed and crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to answer. Because the island _had_ been fun, right up until he realized he had feelings, beyond pervy, sexy ones, towards the biggest Slytherin bastard of all time. Then he’d been silently broody, and Draco and Ernie’d had all the fun without him.  
  
“Ron?” Harry asked tentatively.  
  
“Was there even a point to it?” Ron snapped. “Is Dirch a loon, then?”  
  
“Uh… I think,” Neville started, keeping a safe distance from the redhead, “I think it was about getting in touch with our inner-Muggle.”  
  
Ron turned incredulous eyes on his slightly plump roommate. “What did any of that have to do with being a Muggle?”  
  
Neville shrugged.  
  
“Right,” Ron grumbled to himself, nodding emphatically. “Dirch’s a loon, Seamus is a dead man, Ernie is the most annoyingly adorable bloke alive, and I am _not_ in love with Draco Malfoy.”  
  
“…”  
  
“Er…”  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“…Malfoy?”  
  
Ron glanced up at his stunned dormmates, wide-eyed. “Did I say that out loud?”  
  
Seamus burst out in hoarse laughter. “I knew it!” he cried.  
  
“What do you mean, you knew?” the redhead demanded. “I wasn’t _before_! It was all the fresh, drug-laced air!” Now that he was back at Hogwarts, his head would clear and he could start in on a more appropriate, non-Slytherin infatuation. Terry Boot was looking mighty fine nowadays.  
  
“You’ve been making doe-eyes at him since the beginning of term,” Seamus accused, fairly dancing in his bed.  
  
“Have _not_ ,” Ron retorted hotly. “We’ve even stopped fighting! And everyone knows that fighting leads to wild monkey sex!”  
  
Dean grimaced. “Thanks for that, mate.”  
  
“And you haven’t stopped fighting, actually,” Seamus pointed out. “There just isn’t any real meanness to it now. So it’s less like fighting, and more like foreplay.”  
  
“You, you,” Ron spluttered, wagging his finger ineffectually at the Irish boy. “I hate you.”  
  
“No, apparently you ‘heart’ me,” Seamus countered, grinning.  
  
Ron ripped the Seamus shirt over his head – which he most definitely _hadn’t_ been wearing because it was permeated with Draco’s scent - and flipped him off when the bloke wolf-whistled. “I’m going to shower. When I get out, there will be no more talk about Malfoy. Or I will be forced to kill someone.”  
  
***  
  
Ron was in a really bad mood. And he was hungry. He was hungry, in a really bad mood, and brooding in the library over his Muggle Studies assignment: _from your experiences on the island, label each item on your list as ‘need’ or ‘want.’_ Bloody idiot Dirch.   
  
“What are you snarling at, Weasley?”  
  
“Go away,” Ron growled up at Draco, ignoring the immediate quickening of his pulse. _You are not in love with Malfoy_ , he told himself sternly. _He is attractive and you would be more than happy to shag him, but there is_ NO LOVE _involved_.  
  
Draco’s brows furrowed. “Are you having some sort of fit?”  
  
“What? _No_.” Why couldn’t the boy just leave him alone?   
  
“You’re squirming and muttering,” Draco drawled, dropping gracefully into the seat across from him, “and now you’re turning a bit purple.”  
  
“I’m. fine,” Ron said tightly, gripping his quill so hard he nearly snapped it in half.  
  
With an amused smirk, Draco reached over and pried his fingers off the feather. “You need to relax.”  
  
“Relax,” Ron echoed dumbly, staring at his and Draco’s hands. Which were clasped together, long, pale digits wrapped around his own slightly larger ones. It was obscene.  
  
“Come along, Weasley.” Malfoy tugged him to his feet, dropping his hand and then crooking a finger imperiously, gray eyes daring Ron to follow.  
  
Ron clenched his jaw and gave the blond a narrowed look. “Where are we going?”  
  
“Outside. You look like you need a little fresh air.”  
  
“Oh no, Malfoy.” Ron shook his head, hands lifted in front of him. “No way are you getting me anywhere near _fresh air_.” He used air quotes, and Malfoy gave him a surprisingly mild are-you-mad? look.   
  
“All right, fine. We’ll do this here.” Draco leant against a library table, hip cocked. “Makes no difference to me.”  
  
Ron eyed him warily. “Do what?”  
  
Draco licked his lips. “Come closer, and I’ll tell you,” he purred.  
  
There was a nearby snigger, and Ron sent a lone third-year Hufflepuff a silent snarl before he moved somewhat closer to Draco.  
  
“Closer,” Draco urged again.  
  
Wiping his palms nervously on the front of his thighs, Ron took another step towards the blond.  
  
Malfoy gave him a wicked grin. “I’m not going to bite, you know.”  
  
Someone whistled, and there was a muffled “I’ll bet!” and Ron whipped around with a death glare for a group of giggling Ravenclaws.  
  
“Weasley,” Draco said shortly, patience visibly fraying, and he snapped his fingers, pointing to the spot directly in front of him with a meaningful lift to one brow.  
  
Ron crossed his arms over his chest and held his ground.  
  
And then someone passed behind him and gave him a rough shove, sending him directly into the Slytherin’s arms. Bugger.  
  
“That’s better,” Draco said, slipping his hands under the hem of Ron’s jumper.  
  
“What are you doing?” Ron growled, trying unsuccessfully to wriggle out of Malfoy’s grasp. Granted, he wasn’t trying very hard. He wasn’t a _complete_ idiot. Just misguided and slightly mad and apparently still riding whatever high he’d gotten from the salty island breeze.   
  
Draco’s palms came to rest on the small of his back, a warm pressure, and when Ron finally grudgingly relaxed against him, he accused, “You’ve been avoiding me.”  
  
Ron scowled at him. “Since when do I have to _avoid_ you, Malfoy? We have one class together.”  
  
“Still.” He moved more firmly into him, resting his body flush along Ron’s. “You’ve been avoiding me. I can tell.”  
  
“What of it?” Ron huffed, unconsciously returning Draco’s embrace, arms circling the blond’s waist and fingers splayed dangerously close to his fine, fine arse.  
  
“You’re head over heels in love with me, Weasel.” He tightened his grip when Ron automatically tried to pull away again. “And I can’t blame you. It’s frightfully easy to love me.”  
  
“I’m not—”  
  
“Oh, you are. Remember,” Draco smirked up at him, “I have informants everywhere.”  
  
Ron clenched his teeth and grit out, “ _Seamus_.”  
  
“The boy is an accidental genius,” he said conversationally. “Now, of course, the question is what we’re going to do about it.”   
  
Ron gaped down at him, and someone with a distinct Irish accent beyond the stacks yelled, “Kiss him, Malfoy!”  
  
“I’m afraid this is as big a display as I’ll make in public. Up for that walk now, Weasley?”  
  
“Er…”  
  
“Oh, just go, Ron!”   
  
Hermione? When had _she_ gotten in on this madness?  
  
She was usually right, though, and Ron had learned, mostly the hard way, to trust her implicitly in all things, so he nodded slowly and backed up when Draco released him. He gestured at his books. “I’ll just—”  
  
“We’ll get ‘em!”   
  
Seamus again, and Ron sent a glare in his general direction. He wondered how many of his housemates were hiding back there, but he really didn’t want to find out for sure.  
  
“Shall we?” Draco asked, then sauntered out of the chamber with one last coy look over his shoulder.  
  
When they left the library, Ernie came bounding up, all smiles and dancing eyes, and Draco sighed heavily. “Care to come outside with us, Macmillan? We’ll throw sticks, and you can play in the lake, and maybe Fang will be out and about. Fetch Millicent first, though. Wouldn’t want you wandering off, and Merlin knows Weasley and I won’t be able to keep a steady eye on you.” Ron chuckled, and Draco sent him an amused glance. “I hope you’re over your little crush on the puppy, here,” he said, eyes glinting dangerously.  
  
Flushing bright red, Ron bit out, “Malfoy, you—”  
  
“I’m not totally oblivious, Ron,” Ernie cut in with a grin, ruffling Ron’s hair. Then he spun about and shouted, “Millie!” down the hall, setting off at a jog towards the dungeons.  
  
“The whole castle’s gone insane,” Ron muttered, falling in step next to Malfoy as they took the stairs down to the Entrance Hall. Then a sudden thought occurred to him, and he paused mid-step, turning incredulous eyes on the blond. “This was all your doing, wasn’t it?”  
  
“I can’t claim the assignment, Weasel.”  
  
“No, but,” he took in Draco’s twinkling gray eyes – which were unnatural and most probably drug-induced – “I’m going to kill Seamus.”  
  
“Really? I was thinking of sending him a fruit basket.” Draco leant into him, pushing him up against the balustrade. “Stop fidgeting,” he demanded, then cupped Ron’s cheek in his palm and skimmed his lips over his jaw, leaving a fine, tingling, shimmering, wonderful line of fire along his skin.  
  
Maybe he wouldn’t murder Seamus after all.


End file.
